Page 61 of In Frame
Colby did not put out a hand for shaking, but that was fine. Sam, like most people, knew that Colby Kent did not like being touched, though he’d never heard any specific details. He hadn’t expected a handshake greeting or anything. And Colby was already doing him a massive favor just by agreeing to this.
Monumental. Unbelievable. Other adjectives involving everlasting gratitude.
Colby did not, apparently, mind being touched by Jason. One expansive shield-wall arm looped around slim shoulders and kept exuberance tucked in close. Colby kept talking. “If anything’s not to your liking, let me know, and I’ll try to sort it out for you? And thank you for your part in delivering the artwork! Shall we see how it all came out? I haven’t seen it finished, and I’m sure it’ll be perfect for that wall over by the fireplace.”
Sam looked at the two of them together. Ached to pull outthe camera on the spot: documenting their easy comfort, long lines, matching and not, complementing each other flawlessly, with the welcoming domesticity of their home as a backdrop…
Belatedly, he remembered how to say words. Colby’d asked a question or seven. What’d they all been, again? “Um. No worries about the furniture, the hotel’s great—like, really great, I mean, wow—I didn’t do much about the artwork, that was Jason, I just came along—Leo’s…” He waved a hand. “Leo. He’s…” What words would be enough? “He’s fantastic. He says hi.”
“Leoisfantastic.” Colby, with Jason’s hand in his and cupcakes in the other, headed back toward the kitchen and swept them all along with him. Then began getting out trays laden with lusciously arranged food. “He’s always such fun to be around. Making other people smile, you know…it’s such a gift. He’s got a lovely heart, even if he does cover it up with on-set pranks involving fifty balloons and Tom Bradshaw’s car. Butternut squash and caramelized onion bite? Or roasted strawberry-balsamic tarts? And those little tea sandwiches have mint and date paste and goat cheese in, they’re a bit experimental, but I like how they came out, I think. You said you weren’t allergic to anything, correct?”
“Yeah. I mean I’m not.” Okay, he could manage keeping up. Mostly. “Can I help with anything?”
“Oh—thank you, but I think we’ve got it.” Strawberries and squash bites and tea sandwiches had exploded across the kitchen island in flavorful extravagance. Jason let go of Colby long enough to get out and pour what looked like sparkling water for all of them, and unobtrusively set the first glass near his other half’s left hand. Colby looked up from miniature sandwiches to smile at him, which brought even more sunshine into the kitchen: affection and appreciation and adoration so bright it outshone the day.
Colby said, “We were planning to cook properly for youfor dinner—Jason has plans involving orange chipotle chicken and a marinade, and I’m decent at risotto, though mine’s not as good as Jason’s grandmother’s, of course—”
“Might argue that one,” Jason said. “Maybe. Depends on the day. She was impressed by yours.”
Colby did some more smiling at him for that. The universe got newer and more shiny. “Thank you for saying so. I did mean to apologize, I’ve been a bit busy all morning so I haven’t had time to do much about lunch, though there’s homemade sourdough bread and I was thinking of something involving varieties of grilled cheese? I do love cheese. And then there are cupcakes for dessert, or for now, whatever order you’d prefer.”
Sam looked at the kitchen island, or what could be seen of it under various serving trays, and couldn’t stop himself from saying, “This is you not doing much?”
“Oh, well…itisn’tmuch, really. Jason helped with quite a lot before going to find you. We like cooking together. So that was mostly done already. And then I had a terribly annoying telephone call—which honestly could’ve been worse, it’s just that I’d been worrying about it beforehand—and then I tried to do a bit of calligraphy to relax…” Colby glanced at his own hand and the indigo streak; one corner of his mouth quirked. “And of course I smudged it when Jill texted and I had to grab the phone…”
Jason caught his hand, then caught him, and reeled him in close. Colby settled some weight against his bulwark; Jason’s whole body had snapped to attention, a fortress poised to defend and guard and keep a treasure safe.
Jason ran a large hand over Colby’s dark fluffy hair, just once—aware of an audience but also not caring, because Colby needed care—and grumbled, “I’d’ve talked to your dad so you didn’t have to…”
“Yes, but I’m the one on that children’s literacy program steering committee.” Colby tipped his head into the petting. “Though perhaps you should’ve been there. I could’ve used a loyal knight. I’m not good at saying no, and I think I might’ve agreed to some sort of appearance at a public library in Washington D.C. I don’t mind the library part.”
“No, you mind being your dad’s trophy that he likes to call up and show off.” Jason touched Colby’s cheek; Colby shut both eyes, then opened them, wordless and trusting. “I’ll do it instead of you. Or at least with you. Whatever you decide. Cupcake? Cinnamon dulce de leche?”
“You do know what I like.” Colby accepted sugar, delivered with a kiss. “What I love. Yes, thank you.”
Sam perched on a bar stool. “You do calligraphy?” He knew Colby did; that’d been in some of theSteadfastinterviews and press releases, trivia and tantalizing behind-the-scenes details. Colby had done most of the handwriting for the film: Will Crawford’s letters and scientific notes and spycraft ciphers, and also labels on boxes and addresses on letters and Stephen Lanyon’s captain’s log.
Colby turned his way. Visibly perked up, diverted by the question. “I do! It’s only a hobby, in spare moments, but I enjoy it. It’s always so marvelous when it comes out well—a sort of meeting of the practical and the artistic, and it seems to make people smile. I’ve still got the pen I used on set, forSteadfast; it writes so beautifully, so smooth and clear, and it’s got such good memories, and Lux from the props department said I could have it if I wanted it, they’re so kind, that was so nice of them. I should pick up a new notebook for practicing; I have some gold ink I want to play with.”
Jason, looking at Sam, offered a very fractional head-tip: acknowledgement and approval. The two of them in agreement about protecting, or distracting, talkative blue eyesfrom potentially painful parental topics. “Already bought you one. Should be here tomorrow. Did you want to see how the art came out?”
“Oh, yes, very much.” Colby licked cinnamon frosting from fingers. Sam ate another tea sandwich, happily. The mint and date and goat cheese combination was a discovery, and a tasty one.
Colby opened up brown crinkly paper. And then caught his breath. “Oh…oh, Jason, they’re wonderful. Well, of course they are, you have such good taste, but…they came out so…”
“Beautiful,” Jason said. He was looking at Colby. “Yeah.”
“The weathered quality there, in the wood they’ve chosen…that just picks up the sense of time and commitment and dedication, doesn’t it…such a story of craftsmanship, in the ship herself, in the love of her captain, in the art of finding the right framing to hold it all…”
“Sam,” Jason said.
Sam, not expecting direct address, hastily swallowed a strawberry. “Um. Yeah.”
Jason did another small head-tip: toward Colby, who was communing with art.
“Oh,” Sam said, “right, of course, yeah,” and fumbled for his camera. “Matching yours.”
Colby looked up. “Yours?”
